She noted Gyl’s eyes flash. This was a proud moment for him.
‘As you wish, your majesty,’ said the dour Rolynd.
‘Gyl…Rolynd will prepare a full list of neighbouring royalty who will need to be invited to attend. Please make all arrangements for the King to lie in state for the appropriate period of time. In this instance, we will wait for all monarchs who wish to attend to be present before the funeral takes place.’
‘I understand,’ Gyl said and bowed. ‘I will take my leave, then, your majesty and get on with my tasks.’
‘Gyl.’ He turned back to face his mother, marvelling at her dignity in the face of such grief and turmoil. ‘You will be required to attend a gathering of the nobles.’ She looked at Herek, a question on her face.
‘Tomorrow, your majesty. I shall have them assembled in the Throne Room by sunrise.’
‘Good,’ she said.
Gyl was confused but this was not the time to question the Queen. He nodded and departed with Rolynd behind him.
Saxon managed to convey a brief smile towards Alyssa. He was pleased she had given Gyl a prominent role.
‘Herek, you need some rest. And I must go and sit with Lorys,’ she said, her forlornness profoundly affecting the two men in the room.
‘May I accompany you, Alyssa?’ Saxon said, forgetting the protocol just for a moment.
‘No. This is something I wish to face myself, and I need some time alone with my husband before the arrangements for his embalming begin. You understand.’
‘Of course,’ Saxon replied. ‘Allow me to escort you to the chapel at least?’
She took his hand and stood. Herek was back on one knee.
‘You are a good man, Herek. I am grateful to you for all you’ve done and continue to do. We shall meet tomorrow after sunrise.’
Alyssa, Queen of Tallinor for the last day of her short reign, left her chambers to kiss her husband for the final time.
Orlac glimpsed his first view of the Ciprean capital. In spite of the late hour, it remained a beautiful sight with its houses softly glowing in the light of oil lamps whilst blazing torches splendidly lit the breathtaking palace on the cliff.
However, his pleasure was soon interrupted by Dorgryl.
Time for us to claim a throne.
How do you propose we take over an entire realm?
Ah, that’s the messy bit,
Dorgryl said.
By force. A few will die—certainly enough for the Cipreans to realise there is absolutely no point in opposing us.
Messy?
Yes. I shall unleash your powers, boy.
Orlac seethed privately but bit back on his temper.
Surely you mean
I
shall unleash
my
powers, Dorgryl?
Of course. That’s what I meant,
his uncle replied smoothly.
Come. Let’s not dawdle…now the fun begins.
Hela had made careful preparations. Now she had to convince the uncrowned new Queen to listen to this mad tale of hers and agree to flee the city. With Sarel still uncommunicative as she mourned the loss of her mother, all other palace staff left the child entirely in her care. Hela seemed to be the only person Sarel could tolerate. Anyone else interrupting her grief would be met by either fury or cold silence. She had been seen by barely more than three of the palace staff since her mother’s death. All her former carers had been left behind at Neame. In fact, she was virtually a stranger to the palace staff who had met her only on rare occasions since her birth, so strong was her mother’s desire to protect her.
Sylven had been cremated in the Ciprean fashion. Her ugly death had left her once handsome face scarred with purplish welts, her lips erupted with sores. It had been decided to burn the Queen immediately, and the ceremony was pulled together hastily and performed on the Mound where all previous queens had risen from death to afterlife amongst the swirling smoke of their burning pyres.
Several thousand loyal subjects had gathered to witness the event, all still stunned by the premature death of their Sovereign. Talk had spread that she had been murdered; already whisperings had begun that the deed was connected to the stranger she had publicly humiliated on the last outing of the Silver Maiden. His name was Torkyn Gynt. The grief-stricken had comforted themselves with the thought that at least the
succession was safe. A new Queen would be crowned after a suitable period of mourning. Sarel was young but on the few occasions that the Ciprean people had been permitted to share her, they had found her engaging and as seemingly devoted to them as her mother and grandmother before her. The child would be a beauty it was said and the people respected their Queen’s wish for her daughter to enjoy childhood—her time would come soon enough to accept the responsibility of ruling a realm. If only they had known then what would unfold over these next few days, the city fathers would have crowned Sarel on the very day of her mother’s burning.
But now Sarel was trying to control the alarm which her mother’s closest servant was forcing on her. They were in Sylven’s chambers, standing on the same balcony where Torkyn Gynt had once seduced and ultimately won the heart of a Queen.
‘Sarel, have you any reason not to trust me?’ Hela looked at the girl earnestly.
The new Queen did not return the eye contact; she continued to look out over the city. ‘I do not.’
‘Then you must heed my warnings. I have never had such a dream before, child. It was as though this woman was real like you and me. She has visited me each night to repeat the same warning that great harm will come to you if we do not flee.’
‘I don’t understand, Hela. These people loved my mother…surely they will love me too.’
‘They do. But this Dreamspeaker, Lys, talks of people from foreign lands…bad people who wish us ill.’
Now Sarel dragged her stare away from the beautiful cityscape in front of her and rounded on her friend.
‘How cowardly, then, of me to flee when Cipres most needs her Queen.’
At this Hela could not help but smile. ‘Brave, Sarel. Well said. Your mother would be proud of you. But she would not wish you to throw your life away. She would uphold me in this. Let me get you to safety whilst I still can. Don’t you see, you are more of a threat alive. If nothing occurs in Cipres which is untoward, we shall return and you shall be crowned.’
Sarel, though young by Tallinese standards, was verging on what the Cipreans considered womanhood. She turned back to gaze out at the city she loved fiercely. This was her birthright. She understood that her mother had diligently protected her from royal duties and yet she had secretly craved them. She indulged her mother’s whim to keep her as innocent as possible but her mother had had little knowledge that she had been studying Ciprean history, laws, affairs of State ferociously. She had even engaged her own pair of advisers, based in Neame but with eyes and ears working for them throughout Cipres, who kept her fully briefed on events, political or otherwise. Sarel had known of Locklyn Gylbyt’s call for the Silver Maiden almost as quickly as the rest of the cityfolk had learned it. In fact she had become somewhat infatuated with the notion of the pirate’s son for a short while, dwelling on his bravery and wishing she could ask her mother if she could attend the Kiss. But Sarel had known it was pointless to even ask such a thing. She had been in Neame anyway; closeted safely from the public eye; expected to play with dolls and puppies. Her mother had adored her—she knew this—but her mother had read her incorrectly for most of the past few years.
Sarel wanted to reign; had an urgent need to learn and absorb all State matters. She deeply wished she could have lived and worked alongside her mother, as Sylven had her mother. But now her mother was gone, murdered; there would be no opportunity to learn anything from the best teacher of all.
Hela echoed her thoughts. ‘Your mother’s death is our most urgent warning, Sarel. There is treachery afoot and your safety is paramount now. We have no time to lose. We must leave the palace.’
‘This Torkyn Gynt. You trust him?’
‘I do…yes.’
‘I believe I do too,’ she said, bringing great relief to Hela. ‘I met him at Neame, spent some time in his company. Whilst I believe my mother fell in love with his handsome looks and charm, I too was captivated, but by his intelligence. Those eyes are penetrating, aren’t they? Seem to speak volumes whilst guarding so many secrets.’
Hela was taken aback. Sarel, at thirteen summers, had clearly been hiding the adult she had become. The child was speaking like a grown woman. Had she been fooling them all, especially Sylven, all these years? Pretending to be the innocent youngster who enjoyed nothing more than sugared desserts and a game of throw-ball? Hela looked at the young Queen with a new respect.
Sarel grinned. ‘I’m not enchanted by him, Hela. He’s much too old for me although he is certainly a beautiful man. But I would trust him.’
Hela shook her head slighty, unbalanced by the newly revealed maturity of Sarel. ‘Your mother was in love with him, Sarel. She told me this in plain words…
was even flirting with how she could change Ciprean law to permit her taking a husband.’
At this Sarel’s eyes did widen. ‘Truly?’
Hela nodded. ‘I could hardly believe it either when she told me. Sylven was always able to control her emotions and in all the time I served her, never once did she fall prey to a man’s affections, honeyed words, physique. No, no one until Torkyn Gynt had ever roused her passions like this. I do believe she meant to make him Royal Consort.’
‘And is this possible?’
‘Ancient laws would need to be overturned. I’m no scholar, Sarel. I would not know what such a mighty change in Ciprean philosophy and culture might entail.’
Sarel nodded sadly. ‘She should not have died the way she did. I will see to it—if it takes all of my life—that the perpetrator is punished.’
‘Then you must protect your life to achieve this. Will you come with me?’
‘Give me this night to consider, Hela. I promise to deliver you my decision on the morrow.’ She suddenly looked regal. Gone were the childish attire and ribbons she had obviously worn to please her mother. Sarel stood before her, slim and clearly going to be as tall as Sylven one day, and perhaps even more beautiful. In her simple soft blue gown, slim fitting, curving over her high breasts, she looked anything but a child.
Hela nodded, knowing she must find the patience to wait out another night, and bowed to her Queen. ‘I shall leave you then, your majesty, to consider.’
As she departed the chambers she almost bumped into a familiar figure; one she detested. Her frustration found
a target. ‘What are you doing here? No one is permitted in this tower without my permission.’
‘The guards gave me access. I would offer my condolences to the Princess,’ replied the oily voice.
Its high pitch, effeminate in the way it caressed her ears, had disgusted Hela from the very first time she had heard it. She looked into the cold, almost black eyes, small and ever wary. ‘She is no longer a Princess, Goth. She is a Queen now and the Queen insists on privacy to grieve. She has given instructions that only I will attend her for the time being. You will leave and not return until summoned.’
Goth kept his face impassive and nodded once but in truth wished he could wrap his pudgy fingers around the woman’s neck and throttle this upstart maid. How dare she address him with such discourtesy. He was, after all, a former adviser to Sylven. The fact that he had murdered her was unfortunate, of course, for now he would need to ingratiate himself with the child. Until recently he had not been aware there was a daughter and had berated himself for not knowing such an important detail, but Queen Sylven had obviously kept the daughter well protected. It was a rare mistake—he would need to be more careful in future. He turned away from the maid, took his leave and was aware that she watched him until he had disappeared from the corridor down the stairs from the private tower.
Goth continued to surprise himself at cheating death. Surely he was running out of lives? He had survived the fall over the crashing water’s edge and managed to keep himself beneath the rushing river’s surface just long enough to be dragged swiftly out of the keen eyesight of his pursuers. He had hurt himself though, and if not for
the few remaining drops of clear arraq in the vial secreted in his clothes, he might not have survived so well. The drug had rejuvenated him and once at full strength he had made his way carefully back to Cipres.
After establishing that Gynt was no longer in the palace, he had simply resumed his former chambers, feigning shock and horror at the news of Sylven’s death. No one had seen him leave the city; no one had seen him at Neame. He presumed Gynt and the Kloek had already sailed for Tallinor which meant for the time being he was safe. He had spent the next few days promoting the rumour that Torkyn Gynt was the man responsible for Sylven’s murder and, that achieved, he prepared to meet with Sarel and find out more about this new Queen of Cipres. Goth had counted on her refusing all visitors, hence his attempt to take her by surprise. But this toad of a maid was lurking. He hated her; she had not trusted him since he first came to the notice of Sylven and clearly distrusted him now. Well, perhaps she might need to join her former employer, wherever she was now. He would not let a mere servant get in the way of his plans. Goth decided as he left the Queen’s tower that if Hela locked horns with him again, she would die.
Orlac entered the royal square of Cipres, attracted by the sounds of many voices raised in agreement with a single speaker. He paid no attention to what the man was saying. It mattered not in the light of what would happen in the next few minutes. It was darkening into
evening and the huge square was elegantly lit by torches. Shops as well as eating and drinking houses lined the square, all beautifully presenting their wares. There was no doubt the Cipreans were far from poor. This square alone, with its smooth, graceful architecture made entirely of white polished stone, literally glittered with the wealth of its people. He looked up towards the palace, towering above on a cliff ledge; its pale minarets shot with gold sparkled like jewels against the inky sky.
We should make our presence felt here,
Dorgryl suggested.
Orlac agreed with the suggestion. He skirted the edge of the crowd and then began to push through it. His tall, imposing stature helped to part the shoulders of the gathered until he found himself climbing the stairs of the recently erected podium. The speaker turned, slightly confounded by the interruption and nodded to one of the guards nearby to deal with the nuisance.
A burly man broke away from the guards and approached Orlac.
He was polite. ‘I shall have to ask you to step down please.’
Kill him,
Dorgryl ordered.
Orlac felt the god flare inside him. He hated the sensation of Dorgryl’s presence but he knew he must bide his time. For now, they were both on the same side, following the same path. He opened himself to his powers, felt the Colours infuse him and he cast out a trickle. The guard had put a hand up to prevent Orlac proceeding any further and he suddenly burst into flame, a look of shocked surprise crossing his face as he witnessed his own incineration before he collapsed, writhing and burning.
The speaker yelled, the crowd roared its own surprise which instantly turned to terror. How could this happen?
Dorgryl commanded again.
Deal with the speaker.
Orlac obeyed. The man who had once held the rapt attention of the gathered before this interruption, now won it again, but for a different reason this time. He began to tremble; his body convulsing as a puppet might, when its strings are jerked by the puppeteer. He began to thrash around the podium, screaming in agony.
Orlac did not want to be told what to do next. This was his show, not Dorgryl’s and he would take charge. Turning casually towards the stunned audience, with one man dead but still smoking and another flailed to his death, he loosed his Colours—again it was but an arrogant trickle of his power.